


Orual and the Queen

by Mithen



Category: Till We Have Faces - C.S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, Identity Issues, Misses Clause Challenge, Repentance, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Orual discovers her lost sister Psyche in slavery and brings her home, she expects a happy ending.  But Psyche's story is not so easily rewritten...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orual and the Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slightlykylie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlykylie/gifts).



_ This book was all written by Queen Orual of Glome, who was the most wise, just, valiant, fortunate and merciful of all the princes known in our parts of the world. --Arnom, Priest of Ungit during the rule of Queen Orual _

She wandered, half out of her mind with grief, brambles under her bare feet and wind lashing her shivering limbs. She was clad in rags now, her shimmering robes gone from the moment that His eyes opened and met hers and--oh, she could not bear to think of it, the beauty and the sorrow in those eyes. Her mind slipped sideways at the memory, into a space filled with broken wailing, and for a long time there was a strange bleak blankness where once _Psyche_ had been. 

When she became aware of herself again, she almost wished she could return to that absence. There were fetters on her hands, harsh voices in her ears. She was plodding, one foot moving ahead of the other mechanically, and there was an ache in her legs as though she had been doing this a long time. She knew only that she must keep moving, must keep searching. The ground was touched with frost, cold and hard under her feet, and she felt confusion tremble inside her, for surely it had been spring on the Grey Mountain when she had met (and lost, oh lost!) her love. 

This would not be the first time when time would seem to slip away from her, like sand through her fingers. Later she would come to see it as a mercy of sorts, but then it was merely another terror in a world of unbearable losses.

She raised her eyes and saw that she was in a line of people chained together, making their slow way through a marketplace. Voices were raised; she heard the clipped accents of Assur among them. Somehow the words made no sense, although she had a dim feeling that once they would have been intelligible. Now they were just a harsh gabble: the voice of her beloved still rang in her mind, glorious and stern as He turned away from her, and all other language was but a hollow mockery of speech to her ears. She well understood, however, the way the people looked at her, and the shape of the auction block they were being led toward.

The girl that Istra had been had hated and feared slavery with all her soul, and more than once had wept with pity at the sight of chained people being sold like animals in the marketplaces of Glome. The woman that Psyche had become felt nothing as she was presented to the crowd, her eyes cast down at the ground: slavery held little horror to one who had lost paradise itself.

 _Hold your head up with pride. Are we not of the holy blood of Glome?_ A shock went through her at hearing the first human words she could comprehend, if only in her mind. The voice in her memory was familiar and dear, although she could not remember whose it was. But she straightened her back and looked out at the crowd, her head high. A murmur rippled through the mass of people, but she heard only that voice in her mind: _Bear your sorrows as the princess you are, and my beloved sister._

And then she remembered her Maia's voice, rich and deep as the soil of Glome, and new grief broke over her at the memory of her sister's anguished eyes, and her sister's blood on the ground, and her sister's betrayal. Yearning love and bitter anger were a wave that blotted her out, and time once again ceased to have meaning, and that which was _Psyche_ was gone once more.

Time passed, and time passed.

The world came back to her in fragments: a word here, an image there, a mouthful of bread or the scent of incense, with long pauses between. She would come briefly to herself and be sweeping a step or or weeding a garden, her limbs tired as if from long repetition. At some point she realized there were bruises on her bare arms, a pattern of blood that she stared at for hours, trying to find the meaning in it, before all meaning slipped away once more.

Another time it was the word "Glome" that brought her back from the darkness. Two acolytes were talking--acolytes of Ungit, she realized with a cold chill down her spine as she saw the color of their robes. They were talking about the Queen of Glome, and Psyche struggled with a fresh urgency to make the words have _meaning_ , to stop being empty sounds. They spoke of her as if she were as terrible as the thunder and unstoppable as the lightning. Psyche groped to understand: had her father taken another wife? Or could they possibly mean--but no, the acolytes were saying that it was rumored her beauty was too great to bear for long, and Psyche knew that beyond her eyes and voice, none would describe her Maia as beautiful. And yet the Queen was also bold in battle and wise in strategy, and so it could not be Redival, and was unlikely to be any woman her father would be willing to marry. The information was like fragments of broken pottery that could not fit together, and Psyche tried to remember the lessons of the Fox and reason through the contradictions, but instead the darkness fell again.

When she surfaced from the emptiness once more, she realized she was polishing a statue of gleaming brass. She was burnishing two graceful hands over and over, her eyes fixed on the rhythmic motions of her own hands. As if in a dream, she looked up to meet the gaze of the statue.

The face--Ungit's face--was a featureless ovoid of bronze. In it Psyche could see her own staring eyes, her own face looking back at her.

She staggered backwards in shock and horror, stumbling over the offerings laid out for the goddess, feeling the cloths tear and the glass shatter. There were angry cries, and running guards, and hands seizing her.

This time her mind would not flee from the world, but stayed for each blow of punishment, until the blood pooled on the ground beneath her.

They threw her out onto the street. There was a strange relief in this, in having her feet on the road once more. She knew she must walk, she must search, that there was no rest for her. She would walk though she wore out shoes of iron, she would walk to the ends of the earth and beyond. 

Falteringly, she began to limp forward. Her feet left small scarlet marks in the dust behind her.

*** * ***

A cry--of pain, grief, and anger mingled--roused her from her numbed haze. She looked up to see a magnificent bay stallion in the road in front of her, his hooves dancing as his rider pulled back on the reins. The mounted figure sprang to the ground and stooped over her. "Psyche, my love, my child, I'm not mad--it is you!" A veiled face loomed above her, and she started backwards, away from the blank visage, but strong arms caught and held her. "Oh, what have they done to you, what have they done," wailed the voice; it was familiar somehow, and safe, for all the grief and loss that welled up in Psyche on hearing it. "Bring me a litter, someone--Bardia, help me--"

The arms lifted her up and the fresh pain finally jolted her out of herself and into silence once more.

*** * ***

Lysias was hard at work in the encampment of the Glome army outside of Essur, copying the formal terms of surrender for that city, when he heard galloping hoofbeats and the sound of Queen Orual's voice ringing out, demanding bandages, water, blankets, and where was the Fox, bring her the Fox. He ducked out of the tent to see her in the center of the encampment, swinging off her stallion even as he reared beneath her, heedless of his hooves. She grabbed Lysias's arm and he realized she was incandescent with anger, a mood he had seen her in only rarely--usually the anger of the Queen was a cold and terrible thing. "Oh, I'll kill them all, I'll raze their buildings to the ground and sow their fields with salt--peace, faugh! They'll beg me for mercy on their bleeding knees and receive nothing but death from me for what they've done."

"But--my Queen," Lysias stammered. He called her "child" once in public after her father died, and the stillness of her shoulders had warned him more than any sharp word of his error, which he never repeated. "What has happened?"

She was barking orders, pointing for people to go here, to do that. He saw her hand clench in the air, tremble briefly. Then the blank veil turned his way. "Oh Grandfather," she said, her voice low under the sound of bustling people. "It is Psyche."

They brought the litter into the Queen's tent, the bearers with the whites showing in rings around their eyes, like spooked horses. "Shall I stay and help, Queen?" asked Bardia, but Lysias could see the irrational fear in him as well. He wanted to be nowhere near this place. 

Orual ignored him completely, bending to part the curtains of the litter, so Lysias nodded to him instead. "I shall call if she needs you."

Bardia saluted him and left, relief in every motion.

"Help her," said Orual, her voice half-command, half-entreaty. She had not removed her veil, but Lysias knew her voice well enough to hear the tears locked tightly within it. Sometimes he wished that she were able to cry. "Help her."

The figure in the litter was thin, covered with bruises. Her bare feet were ragged and raw. Her golden hair was streaked with gray (as indeed was Orual's, as was his own), but even the marks of time and pain only made Psyche's beauty more luminous, like a light glowing through ivory worn so thin it was translucent. Orual dipped a cloth in warm water and stroked her sister's brow; Psyche murmured and turned her head away fretfully.

"I shall fetch a doctor," said Lysias, but she put out a hand to stay him.

"No." Though her voice was rough with unshed tears, it was the Queen's voice, and he stopped. "The people still fear her. I can buy off the silence of the litter-bearers, but the fewer people know, the safer she is." She looked up from her sister's sleeping face. "I shall care for her."

"We shall care for her," corrected Lysias, but she was as unhearing as Psyche, as lost in her own pain.

*** * ***

They brought her back to Glome in a veiled litter. To the original bearers--the ones who had seen Psyche's face--the Queen gave princely gifts, and lands far from the capital. So none but Bardia, Orual, and Lysias knew the princess was alive and back in the palace.

Orual waited on her hand and foot, neglecting her royal duties for the first time Lysias had ever known, but Psyche hardly seemed to see her. She spent her time in a daze, her eyes vacant; if you set a task to her she would perform it mechanically, but without any sense of will, like a beautiful doll. Orual pleaded with her, raged at her: once Lysias saw her reach out and clasp her shoulders as if to shake her, turning away only with an effort. It was all in vain, the princess's mind was beyond them all, and Lysias thought forever.

But the Fox was wrong.

After a week, Orual and Lysias entered Psyche's chambers (Bardia would not draw near the Blessed, as he called her) to find her sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked up at their entrance, the quick graceful motion that Lysias remembered so well, and sprang up. "Sister," she said in a choked voice. "Grandfather."

"Psyche!" Orual's voice trembled and for a moment Lysias through she would throw herself at Psyche's feet. But then her shoulders squared. "Welcome home, my sister. I have yearned to see you--"

"--I must go," Psyche broke into her words with an impatient gesture. "Already you have cost me much time."

"I--" Orual's voice broke off. "I saved you from slavery and death, Psyche!"

Psyche's look at her sister was affectionate but exasperated. "Did you not hear my Beloved's voice? Come now, I know you did, for there is no forgetting His words. 'Psyche must hunger and thirst and tread hard roads,'" she said, and for a moment an echo of... _something_ shivered in her voice, madness or inspiration, Lysias knew not which. "I _must_ , sister."

"No," said Orual. "I forbid it. I, the Queen."

Psyche's laugh was as merry and bright as when she had been a child, as free of all malice. "I serve a greater ruler than you, and you know it well."

Orual turned on her heel and left the room, turning the key in the lock behind her. In the hallway outside she leaned against the stone wall, a hand to her heart for a moment. Then she straightened. "Is she mad?" she said to Lysias.

Lysias wrung his hands, distress for both his daughters of the heart tearing at him. "Who am I to say?"

Orual made a contemptuous noise. "Do not give me that, Fox. You are my most trusted counselor, my right hand, and I need your counsel. Is she mad?"

"She seems lucid now, but--"

"--Lucid? You heard her raving! 'She must hunger and thirst'--she need not, she is here now, she is safe! I can keep her safe!" Her hands were clenched in fists. "I _will_."

When they went to see Psyche again the next day she was pacing the room, nervous energy seeming to crackle through her slender frame. She seemed calm, but Lysias could see blood under her fingernails and scratches on the doorframe, and his heart ached.

Orual made no note of it, although he felt her stiffen and take a deep breath. "You will not leave this room until you swear to cease talk of paying this foolish penance."

"Sister," Psyche's voice was calm but there was strain under it. "I must leave this room. Every moment you keep me here merely adds to my suffering."

"But _why?_ " Orual stepped forward, her hands beseeching. "Psyche-- _the fault was mine_ , not yours! What cruel monster would punish you for the sins of your sister?"

This did not fit with any version of the story Lysias had heard, but he bit his lip and kept silence.

Psyche seized Orual's hands from the air, holding them between her own, her eyes compassionate. "It is not that he wishes to punish me, Maia! It is--oh, but I cannot make you understand, it is not something that fits mortal speech. I merely know I _must_ leave this room, I die within for every moment I am here."

Lysias took a step forward. "Perhaps...a compromise?"

The two women looked at him.

"If Psyche were to wear a veil, and to stay with us at all times, perhaps she could be allowed to leave the room for a short period?"

Psyche frowned. "That is not--" Then she set her chin. "Anything is better than being trapped here," she said.

"Oh Fox, yes, we can try that," breathed Orual with the air of one thrown a lifeline.

And so, hours later, the three of them stepped out of the room. Lysias had expected that Psyche would go to the places she had loved as a child, but instead she stopped outside the room and took a deep breath, her head high. Lysias had the impression that behind the veil, she had closed her eyes. Then she nodded. "This way," she said, and strode off toward the storerooms, so quickly that even the queen had to hurry to catch up with her.

At the door to the grainery she paused, placing her hand on the oak for a moment. "Yes. Here. Open it," she said to her sister. Orual called her the keeper to open the door, and Psyche walked into the room with its vast stone walls, its cool and quiet. "There!" she cried out, and rushed to one corner.

Lysias, following after her, saw that in one corner was a vast mound of grain--not neatly sorted like the rest, but mixed all together: wheat, millet, poppy and rye, a hopeless jumble of seeds. "What a mess," grumbled Orual, "I'll have the harvesters punished for this." 

But Psyche was throwing herself on her knees next to the heaps of grain, picking up a handful and letting it sift through her fingers. "Psyche, my child, what are you doing?" protested Orual, but Psyche would not look up from her feverish work. She put five poppy seeds together and three grains of wheat together, and Lysias realized she was attempting to sort the seeds into their proper groups.

"I must put these in order," Psyche said, her eyes fixed on the grain. "Can't you see? This is Ungit's grain and I must sort it all."

Lysias felt Orual flinch at the name of the goddess. "Psyche," he said, "This is impossible. Look--" He gestured at the pile of grain, twice the height of a man. "Please, come back to your room."

"This is where I must be," Psyche said. "This is what must be done before I can move on." She picked up another grain of wheat and moved it to its proper place.

Orual was trembling--with rage or grief Lysias could not tell. "Grandfather," she whispered. "What can I do? What can I do to help her?"

Lysias stood for a moment in the stillness of the grainery, listening to the sound of Psyche vainly sifting through the endless pile of seeds. "I believe I might have an idea," he said.

*** * ***

It took a great deal of application of various mechanical theories he had learned as a boy in Syracuse, as well as an ingenious system of scales, funnels and pulleys, but finally they had created a mechanism by which to sort seeds. Orual fetched him everything he needed without complaint, and even helped refine the system--truly she had always been his most brilliant student. Psyche ignored their work entirely, sorting through her seeds with single-minded intensity, but by morning the very last handful of seeds had been fed through the mechanism and divided into neat, homogenous piles.

Orual knelt by her sister. "Psyche, see--your work is done." She pressed the last handful of wheat into Psyche's hand.

Psyche stood slowly, gazing at the sorted grain, her eyes large with wonder. She opened her fist and let the last grains of wheat trickle through her fingers onto the proper pile. Then she stood, swaying slightly. "I think perhaps I could sleep for a little while," she murmured.

Orual caught her as she fell.

She carried Psyche back to her room and laid her on the bed, bending to kiss her forehead. Then she straightened to look at Lysias. "I thought I owed you much before, Fox," she said. "But this--I can never repay you for this."

Lysias shook his head, embarrassed as he always was when the Queen made much of him. As if his learning was so great or his wisdom so vast! "My Queen, if you had not acquired that text last year, _The Method of Mechanical Theorems_ , and given me the time to pore over it--I am but a poor student of natural philosophy, it is your patronage that has made it possible."

The Queen put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned forward to formally kiss him on each cheek, her veil brushing his skin. "My Fox, I value you above rubies and above gold."

But Lysias was happier next, when Orual (not the Queen) hugged him close and said "Thank you, Grandfather."

*** * ***

Bardia kissed his Ansit goodbye and rode in to the palace. She was happier than usual these days and life was more peaceful at home--he suspected because he had been at the palace less for the last week or so. 

Truth be told, he was afraid. Afraid of the Blessed (peace be on her) within the palace, with her god-filled eyes and her eerie, placid beauty. He had always found Princess Istra unnerving, even before she had been taken by the Beast. Beautiful, yes, but with that unworldly edge that never quite let you relax. Now, her sister--he had never felt truly uncomfortable with her sister, even before he had trained her in the arts of war, even after she had become the Queen. You could talk to her like you could talk to a man, free and honest--and better than her father, who you always feared would take one of his mad whims and have your throat cut for your opinions. He never felt that way with the Queen. There were times you could almost forget she _was_ the Queen, descended from the gods, her blood touched with ancient divinity.

Perhaps that was why he found the Princess so discomfiting now: her presence reminded him that the Queen too was more than mortal, and always had been.

He didn't like to hear her and the Fox talk about the Blessed (peace be on her), but he gathered some days ago from their whispers and their relief that some crisis had been passed, some obstacle overcome. He was relieved, because now perhaps they could get back to work. Now perhaps the Princess would leave them in peace once more.

But his hopes were dashed when he saw the Queen pacing in the Pillar Room, her eyes cast down behind the veil. "She raves," she said shortly as Bardia entered the room. "I thought perhaps, with the seeds--but she raves once more, and nothing will console her."

With a great effort, Bardia locked up his unease. His Queen needed him. "What does she rave of?"

"Of _sheep_." The Queen pivoted, baffled fury in every line of her body. If she had a weapon in her hands, she would have driven it into the heart of the council table. "She raves of the golden sheep of the gods, and how she must collect their wool or be forever lost." She threw her hands in the air. "I tell her there are no such sheep, and she simply informs me she must go to find them."

 _Then let her go,_ thought Bardia, but he bit back the thought. After a moment, he said slowly, "Perhaps she means the sheep of Prince Charon?"

The Queen stopped pacing and looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"Prince Charon of Ulu. He keeps a flock of sheep said to be of an unusual golden color."

The Queen turned to the map, looking at the tiny province of Ulu to the near west. "And does Prince Charon sell their wool?"

"I'm afraid that he guards it jealously and allows it to be used only for his family's clothing," Bardia said.

The Queen tapped the map with one strong, blunt finger, and Bardia knew what she was going to say before she turned to him. "So, Bardia," she said, and he could hear the grin in her voice, feel himself grinning in response, "How do you feel about a little sheep raiding?"

*** * ***

"Don't kill them! We don't want to end up at war with Ulu over a handful of wool!" shouted the Queen. 

Bardia used his shield to turn aside a charging ram with a grunt of exertion. No one had mentioned how cursedly _large_ the sheep would be, or how aggressive. How exactly the Ulites ever managed to shear them--

"On your right!" called the Queen, and Bardia swiveled to block another furious attack. His soldiers were swearing around him, but the Queen's voice was joyous: "Keep them distracted, men! Don't let them move to the south!"

Bardia was facing north, but he could feel the heavy presence of the Blessed (peace be on her) behind him, like sunlight on his back. They had brought her in her litter, veiled and concealed, and now as they battled she was collecting wool from the thistles and thorns of the field. He did not turn to look at her. His Queen was at his side, they were guarding each other, and the familiar rhythms of battle were like a dance they had done many times before.

The Queen whacked a furious sheep on the head with her shield. It bleated angrily and turned to run away, followed by the rest of the flock. The Queen stared after their retreating golden haunches and her shoulders started shaking; Bardia realized that she was laughing. "That's right, sheep!" she called after them, brandishing her sword. "Flee before the elite of Glome!" And then she was laughing too hard to stand up straight, and all the soldiers were laughing with her; she was leaning against Bardia and letting waves of hilarity rattle through her. Bardia recognized the mood, the berserker relief of it; she was often this way after a battle. He was laughing too, he realized belatedly--the good clean laughter that washes away fear. Indeed, what was there to fear with such a Queen by his side?

They leaned on each other and laughed in the thistle-laden field.

Then the Queen straightened up as if her sides hurt, brushing her hands off. "You have done good work this day," she said to the men. "Your Queen thanks you." She looked over Bardia's shoulder and nodded to herself, and Bardia knew that Psyche was safely back in her litter. "And now we return to Glome, victorious in our greatest battle!"

The men joked and jibed with each other on the long ride back, but Bardia rode by his Queen near the litter. Once they stopped to water the horses and Bardia went up to the brocaded curtains. "A drink of water?" he asked, holding out his canteen.

A slender hand parted the curtains and took the flask from him. A few moments later, the curtains opened enough to show the face of the Blessed framed by golden brocade. "My thanks, Bardia," said Istra.

Her voice was like the holiest of music and her eyes unworldly stars, but Bardia was surprised to discover that the cloying dread of her presence was gone. He bowed deeply. "It was my joy to serve, lady."

When they got back to Glome, the soldiers saluted the Queen and swaggered off to drink and tell (well-edited) tales of their latest battle. The Queen saluted them gravely, calling them by name, and wished them well. Then she opened the litter and Istra slipped out, a woven braid of shining yellow wool around her waist. 

"Now will you cease your demands to leave?" said the Queen, her voice harsh.

Istra lifted her chin. "Orual, you know I will not." She shook her head. "I _cannot._ "

The Queen pivoted on her heel and led the way back to the small room, ushering the princess inside. "You will come to your senses soon," she said.

"Sister, _please_ \--" The door shut on Istra's voice.

The Queen locked the door behind her, then stood for a moment with her forehead against the solid oak, her hands splayed against the wood. "It is not enough," she whispered--not to Bardia, as if to herself. 

Bardia looked away. 

"Let's tell the Fox of our success," said the Queen, and when he looked back she was straight and regal once more.

The Fox was in the Pillar Room, working on his histories. He laughed and clapped to hear their tale; the Queen had a gift for telling stories, drawing out the humor in them. "Excellent work, oh sheep-warrior!" he said in his quick Greek way, teasing but serious at the same time. Bardia had never understood his foreign ways, but he had wisdom for all that.

The Queen was studying the map once more. "I shall send for dinner for the three of us and we can discuss strategies against the Essurian rebels," she said.

"Forgive me, Queen," said Bardia, "But my youngest had a touch of fever when I left and I would like to go home and check on her. I shall return early tomorrow, of course."

The Queen kept staring at the map, and Bardia wondered if perhaps she was already so caught up in strategy she hadn't heard him. But then she shook herself, almost impatiently. "Of course, Bardia. Shall I have my doctor come and check her?"

"I'm sure it's nothing major," said Bardia. The Queen was always that way, making sure his family was well-provided-for to the point of largesse. He bowed. "You are, as always, kind to think of us."

"It's not kindness," the Queen said brusquely. "You are my most loyal captain and I--I cherish you."

Bardia bowed again and left the Pillar Room with a warmth in his chest. Ansit was always complaining that the Queen didn't appreciate him, that she saw him merely as a tool to use.

But at moments like this Bardia felt certain that, in her own way, his Queen was fond of him.

*** * ***

Arnom, Priest of Ungit in Glome, was preparing for the evening rituals when Queen Orual came to him. Her face, as always, was hidden by its veil of mystery, but Arnom felt that some agitation of soul was upon her. "Arnom," she said without preamble when they were alone together, "Have you ever heard of something called the Water of Death?"

Arnom started and wine slopped over the edge of the goblet he was filling for her. "My Queen, that is--it is not to be spoken of."

The Queen had begun to clean the spilled wine, but her hands clenched at his words. "Yet I must speak of it," she said. "I know someone who has had a vision of this water. It wells up from a cleft high in a mountain in the middle of a desert, and the pathway is guarded by scorpions and serpents uncountable."

The disquiet in Arnom's bones congealed into the deep awe he always felt in the presence of holiness. "These are mysteries of Ungit, my Queen. You have described Her sacred spring, from which springs the water of death and renewal." Only the high priests of the Goddess knew of the spring; truly something uncanny was at work here.

"Does it kill the drinker?" 

"I cannot speak details of the--"

"--does it kill?" The Queen's voice was sharp, relentless.

"It refers not to the death of the body, Queen. Those who drink it die and are reborn in spirit, not in the flesh. I myself consumed it upon gaining the priesthood." Arnom remembered well the taste of the water, like ice and steel.

"Arnom, I must have water from that spring. Please believe me when I say it will not be used for blasphemous purposes."

"Of course not, my Queen!" Arnom was shocked at the very idea that Queen Orual would do something sacrilegious. The greatest supporter of the church of Ungit! "The eagles of Ungit are trained to fly there and retrieve a vial of water when a ritual requires it. I shall dispatch one immediately."

The Queen looked down at her hands. "My thanks, Arnom." She rose from her chair. "Send word when it has returned."

"Queen," said Arnom, and she stopped at the door. "Forgive my presumption, but you seem in need of solace. Will you not come to the services tonight? We can sacrifice to Ungit together."

A sound from behind the veil; it took Arnom a moment to recognize it as laughter. Not the Queen's usual laughter, rich and wise and free of mockery, but a harsh bark that seemed a tarnished dagger jabbed inward. "Have I not sacrificed enough, Priest?" Then the moment passed, and the Queen seemed to gather herself up, pressing a hand to the hidden eyes behind the veil. "Forgive me, Arnom. I did not mean to impugn the house of Ungit."

"The apology is mine, Queen," murmured Arnom. Clearly his words had hit Queen Orual on some wound too deep to bear at the moment. He wondered if she was thinking of her lost sister--she never mentioned the Blessed, but all accounts agreed the Queen had loved her deeply. "I shall send word when the eagle returns. Go in the peace of Ungit," he said, the ritual words.

"Yes," the Queen said. Her voice sounded merely weary now. "May you also walk in the peace of Ungit, Arnom."

The door closed behind her, leaving Arnom to wonder at the mysteries of the Goddess and of the human heart.

*** * ***

The four stone walls of her cell were a torment to Psyche. They pressed on her spirit, locking her heart in a vice of pain. She walked endlessly, circles around the room, but it availed nothing, it didn't _count_. She had considered overpowering her captors in the brief times she had been allowed out, but restrained herself: even if her inaction added eternities to her punishment, she could not lift her hand against the people of Glome. Or against her sister. 

Seeing the grains sorted had helped, and the loop of golden wool around her waist warmed her heart when she touched it. But until she was free once more, nothing could keep her heart from chafing, raw and broken, against its captivity.

The door opened and Psyche stopped pacing, watching warily as Orual entered the room once more. She lifted up a vial, her hands shaking. "Psyche, this is the water of death."

Psyche seized it from her, casting a suspicious look at the veiled face. Anyone could put water in a vial. She unstoppered it and took a sip, heedless of Orual's anxious step forward.

It tasted of clear water, and of honey, and something else that Psyche struggled to place. As it burned her throat, a burning without pain, she remembered--it tasted of her Beloved's kiss, ice and fire at once. For one moment her body remembered His touch, and warmth and joy suffused her being. Then it was gone and she was just silly Psyche once more, locked in a room and unable to find Him again.

She stoppered the vial and drew a deep breath, unsurprised to find tears on her cheeks. Orual was watching her, her eyes hidden by the veil but her intense regard clear despite it. Psyche forced her voice to remain steady. "I thank you, sister."

"And now I suppose you will demand once more that I release you to wander the world, friendless and alone? As if I were the villain, the cruel one who is punishing you? Oh Psyche, Psyche, you are so loved, so cherished! I wish I could make you see!"

Psyche sat down on her narrow bed, wiping the tears from her face. The joy was gone but she could nearly remember its touch, and now she felt exhausted. "Oh Maia, if only I could make _you_ see. But you don't, do you? It is not cruelty. You truly cannot. Because--" She lifted her head and looked at her sister, "--I have seen enough to know that you have done great things for Glome, that you are a kind and righteous Queen, full of both power and mercy." 

Orual had crossed her arms; at Psyche's words she seemed to withdraw into herself, her unseen intent gaze turning inward. She said nothing.

"I have seen how the people of Glome love and honor you, have seen how you balance the wisdom of the Fox with the wisdom of the priests." Psyche rose from her bed to stand in front of Orual; the words came hard but she knew she had to say them. "You could not see what I saw: the palace, the wine, the clothing. Of course you thought me mad! If our places had been reversed, I would probably have not believed you either."

Orual's shoulders were trembling. After a moment, she lifted her chin. "I do not think that is true," she said, her voice low. She looked at Psyche for a long moment more. Then she turned and opened the door. "Go," she whispered, her beautiful voice breaking. "I will keep you no longer."

Psyche took a quick step forward, as if to fly from the room like a bird from its cage. To her Beloved, her Beloved, she would find him someday at last! Yet for a moment she paused, ignoring the clarion call of her penance and duty, and looked at her sister.

Orual's head was lifted high, her bearing almost arrogant, but Psyche knew her well enough to know what it was costing her. She put her hands on Orual's shoulders and said, "I would give much to see my Maia's face one more time."

The shoulders under her hands twitched. Then slowly, Orual removed the veil from her face.

The dark eyes, as beautiful as Psyche remembered them, shone with unshed tears as they gazed upon her. Her face was creased with age and experience, the old birthmark like a blood stain still spilled across her features. But there was compassion in the lines around her mouth, and wisdom in the care-marred brow, and strength in all the angles of her face.

Psyche caught up her sister's hands, kissing them. "Oh my Queen, peace be on you," she murmured, the ritual words a fervent prayer.

But Orual snatched her hands away as if Psyche's lips burned her. "May the Queen be damned," she choked. "It is only I, it is Orual, your sister, and I cannot bear to see you suffer. Go now, before in my weakness I beg you to stay."

Psyche laid her hand along her sister's burning cheek and looked into her eyes. "You are too quick to divide Orual and the Queen, my love," she said. "They are one and the same, and they are my beloved sister."

Looking into her sister's face, she felt realization pierce her like a shaft of light. "Sister, I have one last boon. Will you grant me the gift of this?" She touched the veil in Orual's hands.

Orual blinked hard and nodded, releasing the embroidered cloth.

Picking up a small jeweled box from the table, Psyche folded it and laid it inside. She slipped the box into her robes, feeling it heavy against her heart.

Then she pulled her hood up around her face and slipped away from her prison, toward freedom, and her destiny. Behind her, she heard Orual's harsh breathing, knew that her sister was struggling not to call out to her, not to beg her to stay. 

She said nothing.

The morning sun was a golden radiance as Psyche walked into the dawn, free once more. As she walked, she remembered the voice of her Lord on that terrible day, pitiless and beautiful as the sky:

_You also shall be Orual._

She had not understood His words then. She had taken them as a curse and repudiation in years after.

Leaving Glome in the dawning sunlight, she began to truly understand.


End file.
